


Videnda

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>videnda (n.) “what is to be observed; the things that should be seen or visited, especially if because they mark the character of a person or place"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Videnda

He likes to tour her body.  
  
He has traveled with many people, and he has admired them all. He's admired delicate hands and heaving bosoms, strong lean legs and very shapely rear ends. He's admired strong aquiline noses, absurdly pointed chins, enormous eyes, and hair of every color. He has entertained many notions about his companions and he he never shied away from partaking in a bit of visual indulgence.  
  
He has never admired a body the way he admires Rose Tyler's.  
  
He likes to go slowly, starting at her temple, a spark from her mind to his, an unfulfilled telepathic connection. Her mind is so strong, so sharp, and he knows she doesn't believe that herself, and it breaks him a little bit. From that moment so long ago in the elevator, a terrified teenager grasping to make sense of something she had no right to make sense of and yet she did, in her own way, from that moment he knew she had him. Maybe it took until a basement in Cardiff to admit it to himself, but he always knew. And so now he starts at her temple, saluting that brain, that wondrous mind, even if she doesn't know it.   
  
He moves from temple to cheek, to curve of jaw. Such a strong jaw, able to jut defiantly or tilt enticingly, softening and hardening with angles and shadows, framing her beautiful face. Kisses along that jaw, a moment to nuzzle at her ear, to breathe in the scent of her hair. Her hair -- as golden as the halo that surrounded her and saved him, scared him, awed him -- never smells of peroxide and bleach, though it should. Instead it smells of flowers, of artificial lavender and her skin, the pure scent of Rose. Just one breath in and then over, across her high cheekbones and grazing over her pert nose and then a reward for them both, her lips. She thinks her mouth is too wide, he knows, with oversized teeth and a comical pout but he disagrees entirely. Her lips are bliss, warm and responsive, tasting of her. Maybe he stops for a long time, drinking in that flavor, or maybe it's just a sip to tide him over; her lips are a destination with an infinite return ticket. He knows he is welcome any time he pleases.  
  
So he travels away, down her neck and to her shoulders, not exactly broad but not exactly delicate either. Like the rest of her, her shoulders are strong and squared, conditioned by years of holding her head high while others insisted she had no right to. He has known many women with far more swanlike shoulders and necks but none of them were able to arrest his attention like she can, her silhouette down the TARDIS hallway or careening down the corridor of a hostile spaceship. Sometimes he forgets what he's on about when she's striding with purpose, shoulders relaxed but firm, setting the tone for her entire body:  _I am Rose Tyler and I am to be reckoned with_. Then down her arm, smooth and soft, to her hands.  
  
Her hands are the opposite of graceful. Her fingers are short and thick, her nails chewed down to the quick, her palms callused and a little bit scarred; they are not the hands of queens, or princesses, or Presidents of Gallifrey. But they are his favorite hands, a perfect fit in his, able to grip tight and hold on, able to comfort and soothe, able to set his skin and soul aflame with the simplest of brushes. He loves her hands so much he remolded his to fit them better, to knit together so tightly they can never be parted.  
  
When he kisses her palms she giggles and draws his face back up to her lips and he grins, marking return trip one.  
  
Through messy kisses he makes sure clothes are shed and resumes his journey, his round-the-world trip. A different path this time, down past the ridges of her collarbones to the mountains of her breasts, her Grand Tetons, as such. He knows by human standard they are modest but he could care less about human standards — by his standards they are spectacular. Firm and perky, soft and responsive, he goes for a hike from base to peak on each, twice. She moans and giggles and breathes harder in some spots so when he's on his second trip he always makes sure to stop. When she is squirming and wiggling he descends from the mountains to the flat plane of her belly, soft still and enticingly thick, but so flat and so strong, sculpted by running and climbing and escaping.  
  
At the bottom of her stomach is a valley, perhaps his favorite valley in the entire universe, and he makes sure to visit each part. A kiss and a bite to each of her hip bones, just to feel her shift beneath him, buck and moan but never beg, even when he paused to take in the view. Then down, down, to the thatch of hair, her meadow. He runs his nose through it, takes in the scent of her wildflowers. And then further, to her river valley, to where she is so wet.  
  
It is a privilege, he knows, to partake of her waters, and he does each time with greed that would embarrass him, any of the other hims he has ever been, but he can't bring himself to feel shame. Instead he drinks her in like a man dying of thirst, glancing up only to survey the landscape and renew himself to his task. Her legs push into the sheets and then clamp around his head, her thighs strong and lean from running, endless running, always running. This is the only world he doesn't want to run from, though he did at first. Ever the intrepid explorer, this was the one land he feared to tread on until he had already landed and stepped out the door and then it was too late. Too late because this land is his favorite land, this woman his favorite woman, and he has loved so many. He has loved before and he will love again, but he wonders if he will ever feel quite like this once she's gone. Every soul he's known has illuminated the darkness of his life in their own way, chased away the shadows, made them small and timid. Rose is the first one he's ever thought could dim all those flames when hers snuffs out.  
  
As she comes with a shout he prays to Rassilon, the Universe, the atoms of creation themselves, that it burns for a long, long time.  
  
He has to pry her legs off his ears and it makes her giggle, breathy and spent and still so wanton.  
  
He takes the direct flight home to her mouth and doesn't protest when she rolls him over to take her own trip. 


End file.
